Monster
by taylor-the-generic-opera
Summary: He's always seen them. They're the reason he's so different. But there's always been that one that never leaves his side. The one that taunts him from reality and pushes him closer to the edge. One-shot, AU, darker angst. R&R.


_Hi, this is taylor-the-generic-opera, the author of this fic._

_I'm writing this one-shot, hoping to entertain myself. I have no real inspiration for it, it just sort of came to my mind..._

_Thanks for reading!_

**Title**: Monster**  
>Author<strong>: taylor-the-generic-opera**  
>Date Written<strong>: 4/17/11  
><strong>Categoryies**: Glee  
><strong>Description<strong>: He's always seen them. They're the reason he's so different. But there's always been that one that never leaves his side. The one that taunts him from reality and pushes him closer to the edge.

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><p><strong>Monster<strong>

They always managed to find him.

At night, when he was doing his facial routine. At day, when he was sitting bored in his French class. Every minute, every second, they were watching him.

He felt inclined to help them. Their pleads for assistance seemed to move him. He was doing a noble cause, he reasoned with himself every night before falling asleep. His dreams consisted of darkness, with numerous blank faces and not a single light shining through. Every night was the same, every dream. Then he would wake up, most likely seeing one of them sitting on the edge of his bed in his small room. They never bothered him too much, never threatened to harm him. Always polite, and willing to give him some space and time.

Of course, there was always **him**.

**He**had that dapper smirk, the piercing amber eyes. **He** was always quote-unquote "watching over" him. Ever since his mother had died, **he** had been there with him. **He** was older than him at the time, probably sixteen or seventeen. **He** comforted him, helped him get along with his life.

No one else was able to see **him**.

It took him a few years to realize that he was the only one that was able to, seeing as how his new friend never grew any older, never changed one bit.

He had always seen them, even when he was a small child, walking around as if it was totally normal. He paid no attention; He had always assumed that they were just regular people.

The thought never occurred to him that they were dead.

His dad was worried at first, always hearing his son talk to thin air as if someone was sitting with him. But he was a young child, he supposed, and had no real friends. He figured that it was just a phase. He never gave it another thought.

It wasn't a phase.

They were always there. Sometimes, there were more than one of them. He'd generously help them, and figure out what they needed to move on. Then they'd move on, forever in his dept. At least, that's what they had said.

**He** had never asked for help. **He** was just... _there_. It scared him a bit, but he never paid much mind to his fears after a few weeks. **He** always gave great advice, helped with homework, and assisted him in picking out his outfits for any day. His life, for the most part, was great, thanks to **him**.

The anger started when he went to high school.

First, it was the questioning of his sexuality. He began to discretely eye other guys, per **his** comments. Soon enough, it became normal. He started to enjoy it, despite his inner arguments against his feelings. But soon enough, he figured he was gay. It wasn't completely accepted by everyone, but his true friends did.

Then came the slushy facials. The prickling feeling of crushed ice and flavored syrup splashing harshly against his face, staining his clothes. He soon learned to deal with it. New Directions gave him an escape from everything, even from **him**. What he didn't know, though, was that **he** was always watching him and the group do their routines, listening in on their meetings.

Of course, he got distracted whenever **he** started to sing and dance. **His** voice was so alluring, **his** moves so transfixing. It drew him in, and he couldn't resist whenever **he**started a routine of **his** own.

The first time he heard **him** sing was when one of his… _clients_ had drug him to an abandoned house on a prestigious campus. It was still in Ohio, but it was quite a long drive. However, the old building and all its prestigious glory, along with helping someone new, was worth it all.

He walked down the long marble staircase, staring at the place in awe and clinging to his bag as if it would protect him from anything that came his way. Looking down at the base of the stairs, he almost tripped in shock as he saw **him** smiling up at him. Those familiar amber eyes, that blazer uniform with the red "D" symbol embroidered onto the chest pocket, that hair. It was the one person he had been seeing ever since he was eight years old, suddenly standing by him at his mother's gravestone.

**He** led him into a large room, where numerous other boys were dressed almost exactly like **him**. Tall and short, different hair styles, different skin colors, but – save a few who were wearing a sweater vest with the same colors – all the same clothing. Of course, they were boys that no one else were able to see. They began singing A Capella, a song that he had come to recognize as familiar.

"_You think I'm pretty, without any makeup on..._" And thus began his obsession with their shared talents. His own voice was the opposite of **his**, more high-pitched and feminine. It didn't matter. They harmonized together perfectly.

After that, all he could think of was **him**. He had managed to find a picture of **him**, one that looked close to recently taken. He proudly hung it in his locker, ignoring Mercedes' persistent questioning and begging as to who his "man-candy" was. He made a collage of magazine letters, spelling out what **he** had told him over and over. Their motto, he supposed. _Courage_.

**He** would whisper it to him; **He** would yell it at him, try and embed it into his brain. He didn't fear **him** any longer. Even though he told everyone Mercedes was his best friend, he always assured **him** that it was a cover-up. **They** were best friends, forever and always. **His** easily-flared temper would seem to disappear. **He** was a real jealous boy, and wasn't afraid to let **his** fury loose. He didn't realize just how much **his** anger issues rubbed off on him.

And then along came the day that Karofsky shoved him into the locker. **He** shrugged, told him to go after him this time. To end this once and for all. Of course, he listened. Anger rising quicker than it ever had, he rose up, furiously storming after the Neanderthal and screaming at the top of his lungs.

"What's your problem?" he had demanded, face flushed and breaths coming and going in at an angry speed. Karofsky gave a few warnings before _kissing him_. _He_ had been behind him the whole time. Of course, once the football player kissed him, **his** entire dapper attitude had dropped. For once, **he** wished it was possible to kill someone.

They stayed in his room the rest of the week. They kept Finn out. The small boy didn't say much, but **he** had plenty to say. In the end, it was decided that he would be attending **his**old school. The one where he had first heard **him** sing.

They never parted. Soon enough, he was quickly falling for **him**. Even though a relationship with **him** would be impossible, he couldn't help but dream about it. During Christmas, they did a duet of Baby It's Cold Outside. It was enough to drive him further to insanity, knowing that they could never truly be together. No matter how much he wanted to be with **him**, it was impossible. He hated the word more and more every day.

It was after the bird from the group at Dalton had given him – Pavarotti – died that things started to heat up.

"You move me," **he** had said. Exactly what he had been telling himself for years, trying to rationalize the pleads that those invisible people came to him with. And then, everything that made sense to him seemed to evaporate for good.

**He**had actually kissed him. It was nice. No, it was more than nice. He loved it with all his being. And then **he**disappeared, right into thin air. **He** didn't show up for another week.

When **he** returned, all hell broke loose for him. **He**would criticize everything he did, his temper flaring easily. It made him feel weak, horrible. It was just like Karofsky, except without the physical contact.

It made him feel empty in the end. He felt as if _he_ had been planning this all along. Wasn't he good enough? Would he _ever_ be good enough?

He came home that day to find **him** sitting on his bed. He fiddled with a small bottle in his hands, one he recognized as medicine from the cabinet in his father's bathroom. It confused him; What would **he** need medicine for? Was it possible to be sick when he was in **his**… condition?

Ignoring his questioning gaze, **he** rose and seated himself at his desk. **He** set down the little bottle of pills, pulling out a piece of paper and a pen and handing it to him. It took him a few minutes, but it clicked at last what **he** was asking him to do.

"We can't be together unless you do," **he** stated simply, reappearing on his bed again. He stared, wide-eyed and flushed, at the offer in front of him. He knew that **he** was always a little crazy, but something this extreme?

"I… I d-don't know," he muttered in shock, his hands shaking as he went to grab the bottle. Prescription strength, and a full bottle. If he took all of these, then he would surely be dead. He'd be with **him** for real.

What was **he** doing to him? Actually weighing out both sides of taking the pills. Thinking to himself after a few unsure moments, taking them sounded like the best option right now. It wasn't normal.

Then again, he had never been normal.

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><p><em>And that's the end. Aren't I a lame kid, ending it like that?<em>

_You can pick whatever ending you want for it. Kurt can either kill himself and be with Blaine, or live and help others._

_Obviously, this is different from what I usually write. And I don't even use Kurt or Blaine's name once, but I hope it's obvious which one is which. If not, the regular "he"s are speaking of Kurt, while the ones in bold are of Blaine._

_Thanks again!_


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